Vixen by Bill Pronzini Read Free Book Online Page A

less-than-concerned word.
    Runyon was not about to argue the alleged drug-use issue with her. He shrugged and said nothing.
    â€œI’ll get him,” she said. “You don’t need to wait any longer.”
    â€œI’ll just make sure he goes along peaceably.”
    â€œShe told you you don’t need to wait,” the sandy-haired man said. “If Cory can’t handle him, I can.”
    â€œI’ll wait anyway.”
    Sandy-hair seemed to want to make an issue of it. The Beckett woman said, “It’s all right, Frank,” smiled at him the way you might smile at an overly aggressive pet, laid her smoky eyes on Runyon for three or four seconds, and then moved on past him to the door.
    He stood watching the shack. Sandy-hair, Frank, paced back and forth on the weedy ground, his hands thrust into the pockets of a light jacket. The electrical wire strung in from the highway, empty now of birds, thrummed in the wind; that was the only sound until Kenneth Beckett let out a cry from inside and then began shouting.
    â€œNo, no, I won’t, why can’t you leave me alone!”
    Runyon started toward the shack, but Frank cut over in front of him and grabbed his arm. “Stay out of it,” he said. “She can handle him.”
    â€œLet go of my arm.”
    â€œYeah? Suppose I don’t?”
    Runyon jerked loose, started around the man. Combatively Frank moved to block him. They did a little two-step shuffling dance that ended with Frank trying to shove him backward, saying, “Don’t mess with me, man, I’ll knock you on your ass—”
    He half choked on the last word because by then Runyon, in two fast moves, had his arm locked down against his side with forearm and wrist grips. That brought them up tight against each other, their faces a couple of inches apart. Frank worked to struggle free, making growling noises in his throat, but Runyon held him immobile for half a dozen beats before he let go. When he stepped back, it was just far enough to set himself in case Frank had any more aggressive notions.
    He didn’t. Just glared and rubbed his arm without quite making eye contact again. Runyon had dealt with his type any number of times while on the Seattle PD and since. A testosterone-heavy hothead, semi-tough until he came up against somebody tougher, more assertive. When that happened, his temper cooled fast and more often than not he’d back down.
    Runyon put a little more distance between them before he turned toward the shack. The yelling had stopped; it was quiet in there now. But he went to the door anyway, shoved it open.
    The two of them, brother and sister, were standing next to the table, close enough for her to have been putting low-voiced words into his ear. Both looked at Runyon in the open doorway. Kenneth Beckett’s face was moist with sweat, but she’d managed to calm him down except for little twitches in his hands, as if they were being manipulated by invisible strings. He looked docile enough in a resigned, trapped way.
    â€œIt’s all right, Mr. Runyon,” the Beckett woman said. “He’ll come with me now. Won’t you, Kenny?”
    He shook his head, twice, but the word that came out of his mouth was, “Yes.”
    â€œBut you’d better change your clothes first. So you don’t get mud all over my car.”
    â€œYeah, okay.”
    â€œHow did he get so muddy?” she asked Runyon.
    â€œDidn’t he tell you?”
    â€œNo. He wouldn’t say.”
    â€œHe slipped and fell on the riverbank.”
    â€œThe riverbank? What happened?”
    â€œMinor panic attack when I got here. He ran out, I ran after him.”
    Slight frown. “You didn’t hit him or anything?”
    â€œI don’t operate that way, Ms. Beckett.”
    â€œHe never touched me,” the kid said. “It was my fault. My fault. It’s always my fault.”
    She slipped her arm around his